for by a good hairdresser. Only his thick black eyebrows and longish straight nose betrayed a native of Northern Caucasus.
The young man’s normally gloomy look turned downright evil as Andrei Vlasov was stuffing the girl into his car. The beige “sixer” was very close; at the last moment, Aslan moved to intercept, but stopped. He was supposed to have nothing to do with this, just be a random passerby.
His teeth were gnashing as his narrowed eyes stared at the license plate of the car driving away.
Chapter 2
August 31, 8:05 PM
Aslan
When Vlasov’s Lada disappeared from view, the young man muttered a curse, threw away his magazine, and started walking quickly between apartment blocks. Along the way, irritated, he pushed away a bum in dirty clothes rummaging through garbage. And these were the people he was at war with! Disgusting creatures, lousy pigs, not human beings.
Aslan Kitkiev’s thoughts kept coming back to the scene near the metro station. Why didn’t Aiza do it? Everything was well thought out. Any sign of danger, push the button, and that’s the end of it! Why did the hoe get confused? What was the bitch thinking of? She wasn’t supposed to think. Just do what you’re told, and that’s it!
Has Fatima injected too little into her, or what?
Had the clients not been too cheap for remote control, everything would have been different! Aslan mentally cursed the clients unknown to him, along with the glorious commander who gave him this assignment. After cursing made him feel better, he grudgingly admitted to himself that the clients had nothing to do with this. They paid for an act of terror, and they didn’t care about the technology used. It was Aslan himself who was too cheap. He wanted to save some of the advance payment. There was no one else to blame.
But why would he have to reinvent the wheel? The hoes were worked up in the best way imaginable! They were practically sticking their necks into nooses, they didn’t want to live. With the first two, everything went down smoothly. Two airplanes fell out of the sky one after another.
Aiza, damn her, was a disaster. And it just had to be the hoe that actually knew him well! Bitch, foul bitch! What went wrong with her? Now there were going to be some big problems.
After passing through several courtyards, Aslan made it to the next street over. His fingers found car keys in his pocket, the car alarm chirped, and the young man got inside an unobtrusive burgundy model nine. Hidden behind tinted glass, he quickly dialed a number on a mobile phone.
A woman’s voice answered immediately. Without a greeting, Aslan asked, “Fatima, how did the wedding go?”
“The bride married well,” the woman answered excitedly. “Just now.”
“How many guests?”
“Enough for the celebration to be remembered for a long time.”
There was a pause as the young man passed the phone from one hand to the other.
“Why are you quiet, Aslan?” the woman asked guardedly. “Are you not happy?”
“My wedding didn’t work out.”
“The bride ran away?”
“No. It was interrupted.”
“The uniforms?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Where is she?” the woman started to worry.
“Some idiot drove her away.”
“You know the rules. There is no way back for a bride! Either a wedding or… You had to – ”
“Keep your advice to yourself, woman! I know what I have to do!” Aslan barked.
His fist rammed into the car’s dashboard; his lips moved in a soundless curse. He hated to be lectured by women. The very word “woman” sounded contemptuous when he said it. They weren’t born into the world to tell men what to do.
After he calmed down a little, the young man whispered into the phone, “I’ll find her. And kill her.”
“Are you done with your hysterics?” Fatima asked calmly. “Now listen to me. You can’t come back to the old address. We are meeting as per Plan B. Don’t do anything without me!”
In response, Kitkiev roared something indistinct and ended the call. The damned teacher!
His thumb started dialing another number, but after pushing a few buttons, Aslan started thinking. He’s already said too much, forgetting the code words. The phone flew to the passenger seat; the car abruptly cut into traffic.
After a few intersections, Aslan slowed down. Now he was driving slowly, looking for something. He noticed a couple of payphones and stopped the car about hundred meters away from them. A few minutes later, he wrapped the payphone handset into a newly bought newspaper and dialed a number by heart.
“Lieutenant colonel Sviridov,” a tired voice answered.
Aslan smiled, imagining the unsuspecting expression on the fat-assed policeman’s face. He hadn’t been bothered lately, so he was about to get a jolt.
“This is Aslan.” Kitkiev took a pause, enjoying the shocked silence of his conversation partner, and gave an order, “I need to trace a car by license plate number; owner’s name and address. This is urgent!”
The voice on the other end of the line hissed in annoyance, “I said I didn’t want to be called again!”
“Write down the number,” Aslan said, unfazed.
“Do you have any idea what’s happening in the city?”
“I know. I need a name and an address.”
“I told you last time I wasn’t going to work for you anymore.”
“A friend’s request – is it really work?”
“I am no friend of yours. Because of a single mistake… I have worked it off.”
“Quit whining!” Aslan snapped. He was tired of bickering. “Tomorrow, your video will be in the feds’ hands. What song are you going to sing then?”
For a while, the lieutenant colonel breathed into the phone. Aslan broke the silence.
“Are you awake? Do you want me to drive the tape over to them today?”
“Okay, I’ll do it. But this is the last time. I want your word!”
“You have it. Write down the number. I’ll call back in forty minutes. If you leave office, don’t even think of turning off your cell phone!”
Aslan dictated the license plate number of the beige “sixer” and hung up.
The corners of his thin-lipped mouth
